Survivors' Guilt
by Brochelle
Summary: A collection of short stories from various points in the Left 4 Dead 2 Campaign. Not in any particular order, really. Rated T because, let's face it: zombies and gore.
1. Ricochet

Outside, jets screamed, and explosions rocked the neighborhood.

Tucked away in a tiny apartment room, sitting underneath the windows, was a man and a woman.

The man wore a ruined white suit and a blue dress shirt, and he leaned against the wall with his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. He was rolling a small, bloody chunk of metal in his hand; letting it tumble over the flat of his palm and come to a rest at his cupped fingers, clinking against the rings there. The man watched the repetitive motion blankly, occasionally stopping to glance at the woman next to him for a few seconds, then staring at the chunk of metal in his calloused hand.

The woman was limp against the man, her head resting on his shoulder. She wore gold earrings that glinted in the late evening sunlight, their shine contrasting the bruises and bleeding wounds across her face. Her pink shirt was stained red, and a dirty bandage was wrapped around her left leg.

Rochelle had gotten lucky. The bullet was a ricochet shot - that was the only way he could explain it - and had just barely grazed her leg. It definitely wasn't the worst wound any of them had sustained, but the shock from it made her vulnerable for two seconds too long.

Nick was the closest to her, and he just barely managed to pry the Hunter off of her before the zombie forcibly removed Rochelle's insides.

Right now, Coach and Ellis were downstairs, searching the house for weapons and medicine. The windows weren't covered in plywood, and the main door wasn't the typical steel door of most safe houses. The crew had been in a rush; they had to get Rochelle out of the street, and somewhere relatively safe, before shit hit the fan again.

Now here they were - the two of them, hiding upstairs, Nick waiting for Rochelle to wake up so he could give her more pain pills.

The conman stared at the bullet in his hand and found that age-old frown returning to his face.

He had checked his gun a dozen times in the past hour, and stared at the extra clips in his pocket. At first he was content to assume it had been Ellis who unintentionally shot Rochelle - after all, the kid got excited when a horde showed up - but then the bullet didn't match up with the kid's little peashooter. And it _definitely_ didn't match Coach's hunting rifle.

Nick tossed the bullet into the air. It caught the sunlight filtering through the thin curtains and glimmered like a treasure.

Nick dropped the bullet on the carpet and went for his Magnum. He checked the gun, and finding it loaded, he carefully slipped it back into the holster. Yet another nervous habit.

"Sorry," he said.

Rochelle didn't move. Not even fractionally. Nick looked down at her - she was so close, Nick could smell her hair. He breathed carefully, almost worried that he would wake her up. But no, she was out cold. Out like the dead.

"I guess it was me who shot you."

No response.

Had he been expecting one?

"Uh, yep," he trailed off. It was surprisingly hard for him to carry on a one-sided conversation. Usually he wasn't doing the talking. "Sorry for… that."

He sighed explosively.

In the distance, something rumbled, followed shortly by the harsh shrieking of the fighter jets. It was so far off that for a moment, it made the whole apocalypse thing seem like a figment of his imagination.

Nick glanced at Rochelle, eyes instantly drawn to a nasty gash across her forehead.

_Some imagination._

"This sucks," Nick murmured. "It would be really nice if they just nuked the place and got this over with."

Rochelle shifted, just slightly, moving closer to him. Her brow furrowed, twitching into a quick scowl.

"Yeah. Yeah, I - I guess I know that it wouldn't kill us. Nothing seems to be able to do that yet, huh?"

He shook his head, smiling gently at the thought. Looking up, he stared at the blank wall in front of them, at the perfect squares of sunlight cast by the shape of the windows.

"Guess it has to do with the whole 'sticking together' thing. You always said if we stuck together, we'd be fine. Well-"

He raised a hand, gesturing at the ruined room.

"-Here we are."

Rochelle made a noise of confusion and started to move.

She pushed away from Nick and sat up, looking around blearily. After staring at the few contents of the room, she finally drew her gaze to the conman next to her.

"Where are we?"

Nick blinked.

"You're in the goddamn Elysian Fields. Where the hell do you _think_ we are?"

"Ugh," Rochelle groaned, rolling her eyes. "We're still in New Orleans? I thought we'd be out of here by now."

"Yeah, well." Nick stood, ignoring the bullet on the floor and reaching down to help the woman up to her feet. Rochelle took his hand and he hefted her up, noting how light she was. "While you were having your little beauty sleep-"

"-Don't give me no bull, Nick."

The conman smirked. "You're gonna be just fine."

Stretching, Rochelle flashed a grin at him, surprisingly warm and honest. Something he wasn't used to.

"You better hope so, fancy man."


	2. Versus

"Okay, okay, wait, hold up. I got another one. Big Foot or… uh, a Boomer."

Nick pulled a face. "How do you come _up _with this shit, Ellis?"

Turning, Nick watched the kid roll his eyes and shake his head, giving the older man a knowing smile.

"Nick, I know yer just stallin'."

The conman scowled and turned away, shouldering his hunting rifle and running up the steps of the carnival ride, until he stood in the threshold of the ferris wheel's gated entry. Raising his rifle, he brought it down and slammed it against the lock; the rusted contraption broke instantly in two neat pieces, tumbling from the chain links and hitting the grated floor with a harsh clang. Nick kicked open the gate and gestured at the silent ride.

"If we climb to the middle, we can probably spot the others. They can't be far."

Ellis stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at him with that shit-eating grin plastered to his face.

Nick's arms went slack, and the gun bumped against his right leg. He glared down at the mechanic.

"_Really_?" he said. "Is this plan really so funny?"

"Naw," Ellis replied with a little nod of his head. He sprinted up the stairs, and when he reached the platform that Nick stood on, he looped the gun strap over his head and let the gun rest under his arm. He adjusted his hat, the movement surprisingly candid, and gave the conman another grin. "I just know you're still stallin'. Come on! Who'd win? Or are you just scared of losin'?"

Nick rolled his eyes for what felt like the hundredth time in the past hour. Glancing over his shoulder, he traced the high rise of the ferris wheel with his eyes, peering up into the hazy heavens as he thought. In the distance, the spotlights danced across the low cloud cover. At the very edge of his hearing, he could hear the groans and growls of the undead, the majority of which had vacated this section of the carnival, since it lacked in any of the bright lights and loud noises that typically attracted them. He realized this was the first moment of relative silence he'd had the chance to experience in… God knew how long.

"Boomer."

Ellis groaned. "Ugh, really? But Big Foot is awesome, man! He'd totally beat the _shit _out of that fatass."

Nick glowered at Ellis. "Hey, you asked, I answered. Now let's get moving - we don't have all day."

The latch covering the service ladder proved no more difficult to remove than the gate's lock. Nick went first, grasping the rusted bars that had just started to cool from the day's heat, and began to climb. As he rose above the carnival, a cool wind brushed across his face. He became keenly aware of how gross his face felt.

"Okay! Nick, I got another one!"

Ellis' voice echoed from somewhere far below him. Stopping, Nick glanced down the ladder and saw the young man was just a couple feet behind him. Pausing to frown, Nick continued to climb, not bothering to answer Ellis because he knew the kid would just keep talking even if no one talked back.

"Aw-right. How 'bout ten Tanks… versus _Godzilla_?

Nick stopped again.

"Well, Godzilla would," he replied.

Ellis scoffed. "Oh right, and I'm a monkey's uncle. You ever seen a Tank, man?"

"Ellis, we fought one like, ten minutes ago."

"Well, duh. But have you ever fought ten Tanks?"

Nick hesitated. "…No?"

"_Exactly _what I'm sayin'! You can hardly even consider fightin' more than two Tanks - I mean, hell, we hardly got by even with the help of those guys at the bridge - so think about fightin' TEN."

"I would actually prefer not to, kid."

Nick had reached the top of the ladder. There was no platform to stand on - only a breaker box, probably containing the switches that would turn the ferris wheel back on. Staring at the box, Nick considered turning it on to alert Rochelle and Coach. But if a Smoker showed up, they were toast.

"You see 'em anywhere?"

Ellis even _sounded _like he was squinting his eyes. "Eh… nope. Guess we just look for trouble and we'll find 'em."

"Nah," Nick answered quietly, more to himself than anyone else. "Rochelle's too smart for that."

"What should we do?" Ellis asked.

The wind suddenly picked up, and Nick shivered. He watched the trees that dotted the carnival grounds shake and sway in the breeze, and he became aware of a faint groan coming from the ferris wheel. The conman was abruptly very aware of how high up he was.

"Let's head to the stadium," he said. "We'll probably find them on our way."

"Okay, Nick."

As the pair began their slow descent down the ladder, Nick thought. And thought. And thought some more.

"…Godzilla would still win."

"Aw, _hell_ no, Nick."


	3. Immune

"I though he was immune."

Nick scoffed. "You and me both."

"I mean, after Whispering Oaks - and the swamps-" Rochelle shook her head, then rubbed the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. She made her way over the safe house's couch and collapsed on it. She just couldn't believe it.

"-This isn't happening," she finished.

Nick stepped away from the threshold door and came to the couch. "Well," he said as he sat down with a heavy _hmph_, "It's happening. You know what we have to do, right?"

Rochelle stared at the ceiling, tracing the cracks and water stains with her eyes, and avoided looking at the conman sitting next to her.

"Yeah," she murmured.

Nick's voice lowered. "Do you want me to do it?" he asked gently, a tone which Rochelle didn't think he was capable of.

She looked away from the ceiling and looked at Nick. She noted the dark bags under his eyes, and the scratches across his forehead and nose. His pale eyes were surprisingly honest, and the usual frown was absent from his face. His thin lips were pressed into a single, neutral line.

Rochelle sighed.

"Yeah. Um. Yeah, that'd probably be best."

She rose and walked to the safe house door, pushing aside the heavy block of steel and stepping into the bright sunlight of New Orleans. She could hear Nick closing the door behind her.

She heard the click of a pistol's safety.

"Guys, we can't stay out here long," called Ellis. The kid was kneeling next to a figure laying on the ground, parallel to a group of gray bodies piled up like trash. As Rochelle neared him, she began to hear heavy breathing - almost swollen, in a way.

"How's he doing?" Rochelle asked quietly. She stood next to Ellis and looked down at Coach. The man had his eyes closed, and his barrel chest rose and fell as he breathed. Rochelle noted the stained gauze wrapped around his bicep - masking the bite mark.

"I - I'm doin' fine," answered Coach, his voice cracking. "A little thirsty, but fine."

Rochelle smiled. "I'm sure, big guy."

She glanced over her shoulder and nodded at Nick.

"We're sorry about this, okay?"


	4. Overconfidence

"-But _that's _where it gets ya. _Overconfidence_. See, Keith was with his girl, and she didn't want to get wet, so when he went over-"

"Ellis?"

The young man looked up from his gun, which he had been fiddling with as he told yet another anecdote. Across from him, leaning against the safe house's colorful wall, was a man dressed in white, with his hands stuffed in his suit's pockets as he waited for the others to finish using the medical kits. Ellis noted the look of absolute (though not unexpected) frustration knotting the man's features, and felt a smile coming to his face.

"Yup, Nick?"

"I'm sure I speak for everyone here," Nick replied slowly, tiredly, "when I say I hope Keith is dead."

Rochelle scoffed, looking up from the gauze strips she was fixing to a cut on her forearm and smiled at Ellis. "I don't know about him," she said, hooking a thumb over her shoulder, "But I don't mind your little stories. They're sweet."

Ellis didn't have to look to know Nick was rolling his eyes.

"Uh huh," the conman said. "You're telling me you ain't tired of hearin' that guys name coming out of Ellis' mouth? Because I know I am."

Ellis frowned. "Hey man, it ain't my fault you got no taste in stories."

"Killer, I'd have to be _deaf_ in order to have taste in your stories."

Pursing his lips, Ellis hopped down from his seat on the weapons table and readjusted the med kit slung over his shoulder. "All I'm sayin', Nick, is that he could have us all beat in this zombie apocalypse. Man would be a friggin' legend, I'll tell you what."

Nick scoffed. "Uh huh. And _I love sewers_."

Ellis concentrated on picking another weapon. His last run-in with a horde left him dependent on his axe rather than the sub-machine gun, which spat out bullets at a pretty decent rate but ran out of bullets about as fast. Maybe he'd go with an assault rifle instead…

His mind wandered back to Keith. If he hadn't witnessed his childhood friend board the first helicopter out of Savannah, Nick's words might have held greater worth. But he _had _seen him off. Gave him a big old hug, too, the kind Keith used to say made him feel like a teenager again. A big ol' bear hug with his best buddy.

Ellis' hand hesitated over the assault rifle.

He remembered the graffiti, the words scrawled across safe house walls. Warnings. Wishes. Announcements to friends and family. But he'd never forgotten the words in red, written across the threshold of a closet door.

_Don't trust them._

_A good carrier is a DEAD CARRIER._

Some people had scratched out the words and written things like "They're still people", while others had even scratched _those _words out, and had added recollections to times when the carriers had seemed innocuous enough at first-

Ellis grabbed the rifle.

_Only a hug._

_He wasn't sick. He couldn't be_-

"Kid, you okay?"

Ellis jumped, wrenching his neck as he turned and stared at Nick. The conman looked genuinely concerned, fixing him with an intense scowl.

"Y-yeah," Ellis answered. He gave a shaky grin.

"If you say so," Nick said at length. "You weren't talking. That's usually a warning sign."

Ellis laughed weakly, and stared at the gun in his hands.

_He wasn't sick._


	5. Alone

"Oh, shit."

There was nothing. No sound. No screams, no gunshots, no howls. No moans of pain.

Nothing, nothing, nothing.

"God, did I screw up something awful," Rochelle muttered.

She could see a patch of moonlight ahead of her. Her legs shook and she swayed as she walked; she was consumed with nausea. The world was a haze.

"Guys?" she called out. Her voice rang in her ears, falling flat; not strong enough to echo amongst the maze of wooden support beams and the gray, bloody piles of the dead.

Her spent AK-47 fell from her numb fingers as she stepped up onto the roller coaster's tracks. Maybe if she climbed higher, she would spot someone - one of the others - and get help.

She wasn't feeling right.

The moonlight made everything seem unearthly, surreal, and the air was cold, even though it had been sweltering just hours ago. It just didn't make sense.

It just didn't.

There was a body there. More colorful than the others. It wore a yellow shirt, and a jumpsuit with the sleeves tied around its waist. Rochelle tried to laugh - it came out as a hoarse giggle.

"Ellis!" she cried. "Ellis, sweetie, finally, at least-"

The body of a Jockey, riddled and mutilated with shotgun blasts, was wrapped around Ellis' neck. His shirt was stained with blood, and torn up all over, and his face - _oh God, his face _-

Rochelle turned away, and threw up on her shoes.

"Oh God," she whispered. "Oh _God_."

She stumbled away, unable to look at her friend any longer. She couldn't think about it - if she dwelled on it she'd never make it to the others. There was still Coach and Nick. Rochelle had to do it for them. She had to keep going.

_Ellis_.

"I'm sorry," she said, and walked further along the tracks.

She tripped over the strewn bodies - all of them long dead, all of them that gray sickly color - and she stared at their empty eyes, hoping to see a pair she knew, but dreading the moment she'd recognize them.

It felt like hours when she finally heard something - _someone_ - pleading, shouting. Rochelle felt new hope coursing through her - _she knew that voice -_

"Nick!" she shouted. "_Nick!_"

His voice came from the bottom of the roller coaster's dip, carrying on the stagnant air, the sweetest sound she'd ever heard.

"Rochelle! Ro, _Christ_, I need some help over here-"

She was grinning, delirious and giddy. She started jogging, then she was running down the slope of the tracks, and there was the dash of white against the dark. Suddenly, a wave of nausea flooded her gut, and she tripped, falling to her knees next to the conman.

"Shit, are you alright?"

Rochelle rested back on her haunches, trying to push past the stinging in her knees. "Yeah," she muttered, placing a hand on her forehead and shutting her eyes to focus. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Well-" Nick gasped. "-I'm not."

She looked at Nick.

"Oh," she managed.

His whole front was coated in slick blood, with his blue shirt torn apart and laying in gore-soaked shreds around him. Only patches of his suit were still white; most of it was a mottled green, with splashes of blood around the sleeves, chest, and ankles.

His heels dug into the tracks as he writhed in pain, and he suddenly squeezed his eyes shut.

"Nick, this-"

"Yeah," the conman said, hissing the words through gritted teeth. "This is not good."

Rochelle didn't have a med kit. She had used it on Coach, back in the Tunnel of Love, after he'd been smashed by a Charger. None of them had had one when they entered the Screaming Oak.

She didn't even have a bottle of pills.

"There might be a safe house on the other side of these tracks," Rochelle said. She reached to grab Nick's shoulder, to help him to his feet so they could find the safe house, but the man brushed away her hand. "Come on, Nick, let's go."

"Rochelle, I can't-"

"-What?"

"I can't feel my legs, Ro."

She was silent. Nick stopped writhing, and he lifted his hand, grabbing Rochelle's hand and entwining his fingers in hers. A grim smile twisted his features. He gently squeezed her hand.

"No, no, no-" Rochelle murmured. "No, you can't do this. I - Ellis is gone - and Coach -"

She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"You _can't_."

Nick gave a wheezing chuckle and shook her hand a little. "And w-why not?"

"Because we're… we're not safe yet. And your suit is dirty. You can't die with your suit…" Rochelle picked at his sleeve, frowning. "You can't with your suit looking like this."

"Hah. I just thought we'd go farther than this. You know?"

"Yeah," Rochelle said, looking away. "Yeah, I know."

Nick was silent a moment, then he said, "You're not going to get far, will you?"

"No. Probably not."

"When I go, you're gonna miss me, right?" He was joking; she could hear it in his voice. Rochelle knew the conman didn't expect anyone to miss him when he died. Well, maybe that had been the case a week ago. But now it was different. Now it was very much different.

"I'll miss you, you asshole," Rochelle said with a smile.

Nick gave a laugh, but suddenly choked, sending blood gurgling out of his mouth. He twisted his head and spit on the ground, then looked at Rochelle and gave her a blood-stained smile.

She smiled back, and then her - and his - smile faded.

Squeezing his limp hand tightly, and trying her damnedest not to cry, Rochelle looked over her shoulder and watched the Carnival. She watched the distant spotlights, and thought about trying to reach them. But it was only dragging out the inevitable. They'd only managed to get here by working together, and now -

- Now, she had no one.

No weapons, no med kits, no pills, no friends.

Rochelle grabbed Nick's hand and started sobbing.


	6. Backtracking

There was nothing else. This was it.

Another explosion shook the street under his feet. His lungs stung with the ash and the dust that veiled the city, and his legs felt numb from all the running, but he had to keep going. The sun was settling below the horizon - _he was running out of time_ - and everything hurt but he could never - not even now - stop; so he ran through New Orleans, yelling out names and hoping against hope that someone would answer.

No one would.

Not even the undead, whose presence was something Nick had come to accept as a constant; as something that would never leave. They were strangely absent from the ruined streets. Not even the mutated ones - the ones that threw acid and the ones that jumped through the air and tore your throat out as you screamed for mercy - were seen, and frankly, Nick was in no position to fight any of them if they were there. He'd lost the gun back in-

- _He was shouting for help as he dangled from the scaffolding's edge, but Nick couldn't reach him now, Coach was too far and there was nothing to be done_ _as they fled the plantation_ -

- hillbilly hell, and hadn't had a chance to pick up one since stepping off of Virgil's boat, and he was too dazed to shoot straight anyway, so it didn't matter.

Nick tripped to a stop, staring up at the massive tour bus that had tumbled down the street and neatly blockaded his path. There was a jazz club, though, so maybe he could go through there-

- _the awful screaming of a Witch who had cast her sights on new prey, and the harsh slap of bare feet on warm concrete as she ran for the Southern kid, tackling him to the ground and shredding apart his stomach. There was Ellis' own blood choking him as he lay writhing in the street, utterly alone as the survivors nursed their wounds_ -

-Another explosion. This one was closer. The ceiling shivered from the blast, and fine powdered plaster drifted down as Nick stumbled up the stairs onto the club's second floor, using the staircase railing as a guide through the dim room. He could hear sobbing now - the tell-tale, high-pitched wailing of a Witch - but he couldn't quite see her yet -

- _The Tank came out of nowhere, flipping over ruined cars as it thundered down the empty street. Rochelle shouted an obscenity - something crass and angry, he remembered - and the last two survivors opened fire on the hellish monstrosity. But it just kept coming and then the Tank - then the zombie, the fucking thing that had been a goddamn human once - dug its swollen fingers into the asphalt and ripped a chunk of it from the very street, and then it was throwing the asphalt, and Rochelle gave a gasp and there was a crunch and a brief scream and then nothing but a con man and a zombie_ -

- The sobbing faded behind him. Nick must have bypassed her. He wasn't sure yet whether or not to call it luck. At this point, it would have been easier if the Witch just took care of things. He'd rather go out by Witch than something like a Charger.

Jets screamed overhead, and not more than a quarter of a mile behind him, bombs detonated. They weren't close enough to kill him - he wouldn't be so lucky - but he knew he was getting closer to the bridge. This was it, this was what he had to do -

Another pair of jets went overhead. Bombs were dropped, but Nick would never hear the explosions.


	7. Human

So. This was the safe zone.

The halls were stark and sterile, absent of all life aside from the spectral figures of the masked scientists. They drifted over the shiny, waxed tiles with the grace of the supernatural, darting from room to room, heralded by the shuffle of pale green scrubs and soft murmurs as they entered their patient's chamber.

They kept the carriers confined to their pale-painted cages, hidden behind old wooden doors with rusted locks. Nick hadn't left his room since the interrogation, nor had anyone visited him; the events of the "meeting" had most likely served as a warning toward how unpredictable survivors could be.

Nick scoffed.

Writhing on his bed, the con man tried to get comfortable on the thin mattress - and succeeded in making the bed frame squeak like a tortured cat. Nick cringed, but the harsh noise quickly evaporated into the musty air, swallowed up by the deafening sound of the storm outside. His heartbeat slowed before the realization that the old urge - fight or flight - had actually resurfaced. Scowling at the ceiling, Nick folded his hands over his stomach and listened to the rainfall.

_So this was what we fought for_.

His food came twice daily. Once in the morning - right when the sunlight filtered through the stained, opaque window - and again when the room's warm glow faded into something darker; something familiar. Always delivered the same way - through the door's delivery slot - and it was always, _always_, MREs. Always that tasteless mass of food that didn't get better no matter how much water he added.

He always sat in front of the door when he knew the food was coming. The habit made him feel like an animal, but he'd grown out of the ability to care. After a week of nothing but being drenched in gore, vomit, and acid, the sensation of humanity was reaching an all-time low.

As he would sit on the cold, concrete floor, eating off a cheap plastic plate, using his hands to scoop up "food", he tried to scrape his mind free of anything that made him feel human. It wasn't the time anymore to feel like a decent human being. It wasn't the time to appreciate a hot shower, or sleeping in an actual _bed_, or feeling love, or even just being able to walk more than seven paces without meeting a cracked, peeling wall.

At this point, the knowledge that being human was no longer an option was decidedly obvious. He could reminisce on the "golden days" all he wanted - that wasn't going to bring them back. That wasn't going to kill every zombie on the planet and let him free. That wasn't how things worked.

Sometimes he wasn't even sure if he wanted to be human again.

What were those "golden days", again?

Guys beating the shit out of him. Beating the shit out of other guys. Smuggling firearms to men who should never own firearms. Stealing bits and baubles. Cheating at poker games, and yet never winning.

Drinking. Smoking.

_Yeah, they were golden alright_, Nick thought.

The others were lost in the maze of the hospital. He hadn't seen them since the armored guys "escorted" them off the helicopter. Hell, if he hadn't seen them led into the hospital himself, Nick would have assumed he was the only one left.

But he knew that wasn't the case. That just wasn't how things worked.

_Thank God_.

Nick stood on his bed, relishing the sensation of the scratchy fabric under his bruised feet. If he reached up, he could touch the ceiling, but it seemed like too much of an effort. Nick sat back down. The bed squealed as he got comfortable again, letting his legs hang over the edge of the mattress. He hugged himself and stared at the man across the room.

The mirror was oddly clean, and even from here, Nick could see how much he looked like shit. His hair - reaching up, he raked his fingers through it, combing it back in that familiar style - hung limply around his face, and his stubble had official reached beyond the ruggedly handsome level. His black eye was still there - _how long had he been in this place _- and that godawful cut across his forehead was raw and angry against his pale skin.

Shit, shit, shit.

Nick rested back, the crest of his head snug against the cool wall.

"Fuck," he mumbled.

Ellis was probably talking the scientists sick. Telling them stories about that goddamn buddy of his, and about his many, impossible feats against the laws of physics. Or maybe he was talking about the Midnight Riders. Maybe even about that girl - what was her name? Zoey? - and how much he missed her. Perhaps Ellis talked about Nick and the others. Did he know he wasn't alone in the hospital?

What was Coach doing? _He would hate the food_, Nick thought, sparking a rare grin. Probably talking about all those football games he won back in college. Or bitching about how much his knee ached. Or how the bed didn't help his back any. Maybe he didn't talk at all.

Rochelle wouldn't handle the situation well. She'd go crazy trying to find out what happened to the others. She'd order the scientist to let her see the others. She'd be glad that everything was safe now, but she wouldn't feel safe until she was with the others. That was how she worked. That's how things should work.

Nick sighed.

He wanted out. He missed being human.


	8. Faulty

"I think I'm going to paint my nails before I go. Haven't done that in… _years_. Probably not since I was ten. But it might make me look more professional, you know?"

"_Mmhm. Sounds good to me_."

"By the way, I'll need you to swing by the house at least once a day to feed the dog."

"_Got it._"

"And I wouldn't say no if you decided to take her for a walk, or something."

Silence on the line, peppered by static. Rochelle stared at her suitcase, mentally taking note of all the things she needed compared to what she had packed. All she had to do now was take a shower and get to bed early - she had to leave around eight tomorrow, and the airport was an hour away from her neighborhood-

"-_Oh. Right. Yeah, guess I could do that_."

Rochelle's smile was tired, but well acquainted with the situation. Jacob wasn't much for talking - that is, unless it was a subject matter that interested him, in which case: good luck shutting him up. His tone was bored and careless, not much for stimulating a proper conversation.

It being the night before she left for Savannah, Rochelle had been hoping for a more _heartfelt _moment between her and her boyfriend.

"Sorry, am I interrupting you?" Rochelle teased. She picked up her suitcase, testing its weight, and set it back on the bed before leaving her room. The only nail polish she had was a cheap red wine color, but it would probably do the trick. She flicked on the bathroom lights and dug into the medicine cabinet, listening for Jacob's reply.

"_Kinda, yeah._"

Rochelle's hand froze over the bottle of polish. "Oh."

"_Yeah, but it's not a problem, you know? Just watching a show. Kind of involving. You know_."

She gave a little laugh, and felt that fake smile spread across her face - the smile that said _It's okay, I forgive you_ - as she stepped out of the bathroom. She walked down the hall, heading for the living room. The carpet was thick under her bare feet.

"_So, what color did you pick_?" Jacob asked, suddenly interested. Or feigning interest. Rochelle couldn't care less anymore.

"Muave, I think. Or red? I don't know - it's pretty purple-looking." Rochelle cradled the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she turned on the kitchen light and held the bottle up to the lamp. She frowned. "I don't know. Looks like the wine you won at work."

"_Oh, yeah. That was some high-quality stuff._"

Rochelle smiled. "Mmhmm. Sure."

"_It's getting pretty late. Maybe I should go. You gotta paint your nails and get all dressed up for your big day tomorrow._"

He said it jokingly, mockingly. Rochelle pursed her lips as she grabbed the phone with one hand and shook the bottle with the other, making her way past the dining room table. Plopping down on the couch, she put the bottle on the coffee table flexed her hand, staring at the plain, pink nails distractedly.

"Yeah," she said at length. "Yeah, big day and all. I think I'll wear that Depeche Mode shirt-"

"_I can't believe you actually like that band_."

A quick frown flitted across her face as she tried to ignore the comment.

"-And uh, yeah. I'll be gone for a while, honey. Probably a good week or so. You sure you've got the house handled?"

"_Definitely. Have fun. Make friends. That kind of shit._"

His haughty tone was verging on the unacceptable.

"Jacob, this is kind of a big deal for me," she said soothingly. "This could be my big break. This is the story of the century, and they're sending _me_ on the job!"

"_This is the kind of bullshit that belongs in the _National Inquirer," Jacob retorted. "_They're sending you on this stupid job because no one else wants it. Trust me, this whole 'Green Flu' thing will be forgotten before you're picking up your morning coffee._"

Rochelle shrank into the couch, clutching the bottle of nail polish, her knuckles paling as she fought to keep control.

"Can't you just be happy for me?" she murmured.

"_I _am _happy for you, babe. I'm just saying this is a waste of your talents_."

"We'll see."

"_Alright, well, I'm going to bed now_."

Which basically translated as _I'm going to go play cards with my buddies until someone drives my drunk ass home_.

"Okay." Rochelle sighed. "Love you."

"_Mmhm_."

The phone clicked, and Jacob was gone.

* * *

**A/N: At points in the game, Rochelle refers to a "Jacob" character, usually when she's in an immense amount of pain. She typically says "I should have stayed with Jacob".**

**I like to think Rochelle's trip to Savannah was a climactic moment in their relationship, where Rochelle started to realize she'd fallen for a jackass again. Funny how an apocalypse can fix a relationship.**


	9. Fire

"You'd think I would have gotten over the zombies by this point."

Nick started, his heart leaping into his throat, but he covered up his surprise by giving a forced chuckle. He twisted away from the scene beyond the window and peered into the dim corners of the safehouse. Rochelle's bright shirt loomed out of the dark, a vivid, splash of pink against the black depths; she was smiling, the small, half-smile that had him smirking in return.

"What's the shocker?" Nick replied. He turned away as Rochelle reached the window, faintly aware of the smile on his face melting away. "They're dead, they walk, they like to eat people. Anything new?"

He felt her shrug, her elbow brushing against his arm. "Oh, I don't know," Rochelle said, her words resting on a tired sigh. "Sometimes I'll wake up to them screaming, y'know, as if I haven't been hearing it every day for the past week."

"Eh," Nick scoffed. "I doubt it's something you'll ever get used to."

"How about you?"

"Probably not, no."

They were silent, Nick listening to Coach's rumbling snores and Ellis' heavy breathing, Rochelle staring out the safe house's door's barred window. There was a barrel just outside the door with a fire crackling in it, and the soft glow cast an eerie, rich light over the alley. A couple Infected were leaning against the brick walls of the buildings across from the safe house, while several stumbled about, occasionally bumping against one another, emitting a sharp gasp of surprise, or even a threatening growl.

"What was screaming earlier?" Rochelle murmured. Her voice hung in the air, dry and unmoving. Nick moved his head fractionally, looking to see her expression, but the room was completely dark - the only thing he could see was when she shifted, and her gold earrings caught the fire's light. Her eyes glimmered as she turned to him, her face outlined in a hazy orange, and the sweat that smeared her brow glistened.

"Hunter," Nick said softly. He stared out the window, watching as a female Infected tripped up to a male, bumping into him with the grace of a drunkard. "He wanted in."

"Ah."

The female jerked away from the male, yelping softly as she stepped back from him. The male growled and threw a fist, catching the female in the jaw and sending the female sprawling to the ground. With a screech, the female pulled herself up and launched herself at the male, punching him in the gut and granting a sickening gurgle from her opponent. The two began fiercely attacking each other, both seemingly ignorant of the violence they were inflicting.

A couple of the other Infected were startled by the noise, and began to wake up. Some cautiously neared the two fighters, uttering sounds of confusion and anger as the Infected tore at each other and grew closer to the fire in the barrel.

Nick moved closer to the door to watch the fight. Rochelle stepped closer to him, leaning into his shoulder as she tried to keep up with the fight.

"Wonder why they do that," she muttered.

The female Infected landed a kick in the male's groin, the male instantly falling back and bumping into the barrel. Sparks flickered, but the female didn't stop, instead shoving the other Infected until the male was forced to run. The female pursued a short distance, arms waving and her voice a harsh shriek, but as soon as her opponent disappeared into the darkness beyond the pool of light cast by the fire barrel, she drew up short. The victorious Infected gave a howl, then retreated to the fire to nurse her wounds.

"Christ if I know," Nick said.

"Maybe it's the same reason they fight us," Rochelle mused. "Just gotta attack anything that moves. Like, a defensive mechanism or some crazy shit like that?"

Nick shrugged, even though he knew she wouldn't be able to see it in the dark. She must have become aware of the movement, because she leaned away from him, giving his hand a brush with her fingertips.

The con man scoffed.

"They just got a bone to pick with everything on Earth. With our luck-"

Rochelle chuckled, crossing her arms and shaking her head, her earrings catching the fire's light. "With our luck, they think we're the Infected ones."

"At this point in time, that would honestly not surprise me."

"I'm kind of wondering if they're even zombies. You know, I don't even think they're dead."

"Hmm."

"Ah, hell if I can understand it. Just shoot and pray, right?"

Nick chuckled. "Yeah. I'm not gonna stop to take their pulse, that's for sure."

They shared a laugh, a tired, humorless laugh, before Rochelle elbowed him in the side and reminded him that it was her turn to take watch. Nick would shake his head and quietly go to his own corner of the safehouse, rest against the cracked walls and try to get some sleep.

He finally dozed off, an hour later, watching Rochelle's silhouette against the firelight.

* * *

**A-N: And yes, I'm absolutelybrochelle on Tumblr. Like most of these chapters, this was a request made by a friend on that site.**


	10. Twinkies

"I found some… hot dogs."

Rochelle blanched. "Ellis, please don't eat those."

Coach gave a hearty chuckle, and Ellis looked hurt, staring down at the package with his lips pursed.

"Aw, come on, guys. Can't be that bad." He jumped up out of the pile of trash and stumbled toward Rochelle. "Look, they ain't even got mold on them-"

A spectral flash moved in the corner of her eye. Nick emerged from behind a pile of trash, his once-white suit wrinkled and streaked with blood. He looked absolutely disgusted with the bright, flashy box of popcorn in his hand. Pulling a face, he threw the box to the ground, sending the stale junk food flying across the trailer's metal flooring.

"It's been, like, three weeks, Overalls," Nick said bitterly, wiping his hands on his dirty blue button-up shirt, then holding them out in a gesture of hopelessness. "They haven't been refrigerated. It doesn't matter if they don't have mold, we'll be sick as dogs if we eat that shit."

"Well, what did you find?" Ellis grumbled. The package of rotten hot dogs fell from his limps fingers as he glared at the con man. Rochelle looked away from the cardboard box she'd been digging through and stood up, dusting her hands off on her jeans. Knuckles on her hips, she turned to give Nick a playful smirk.

"I found jack shit." Nick glared at Rochelle. "Old cotton candy sticks, a couple exploded containers of whipped creme." Then he added, his tone nonchalant, "So basically jack shit."

Rochelle laughed. "I guess you should keep your mouth shut then, unless you'd like to eat shit."

The con man opened his mouth to respond, but was abruptly interrupted when Coach made a loud whoop.

"This is it, kids!" he shouted. "Some fine-ass food right here!"

"I'd like a clear definition of 'fine-ass', please."

"Nick, shut up." Coach was pulling at something inside one of the many cupboards in the vendor's trailer, boxes tumbling out and falling to the floor with loud claps. With a grunt, the big man grabbed a massive, cardboard box, and hefted it out of the cupboard. Bending down, he dropped it on the trailer's floor. Coach gave a satisfactory huff and clapped his hands. "Here we go!"

He pulled open the box's untaped flaps.

Ellis gasped, the sound heightened with childish glee. Rochelle what at a loss of what to say.

Nick, unsurprisingly, did have something to say.

"What the fuck," he said tonelessly, "is that."

Coach reached into the box and yanked out a handful of brightly-wrapped, gold-colored bars. He tossed one of them at Ellis, who caught it quickly, the plastic crinkling violently as he tore it apart.

"This here is God's gift to man." Coach unwrapped one of the golden bars and bit into it, teeth sinking into the spongy material. With a creme-smeared grin, Coach said, "these are Twinkies, Nick."

"Oh, excuse me," Nick replied sarcastically. "I know what the fuck it is. I just can't fathom why it's useful at this moment. Or why you called it God's gift to man."

Rochelle shrugged and grabbed one of the plastic-wrapped treats. She careful removed the Twinkie and took a delicate bite, hesitant of whether or not it was still good.

"Dunno, it's food. So I guess I'll take it."

"Nick, you ever even had one of these things?" Ellis called from across the trailer,

spraying bits of the yellow cake as he talked. "They're the friggin' best, man."

"Of course I've had them."

"Suit, if you're this shy to eat a Twinkie, there ain't no way you've had one before," interrupted Coach. His gloved hand dove into the box and retrieved another package, tossing it to Nick who fumbled to catch it. Nick scrutinized the ingredients and frowned.

"I can't even pronounce half of this shit."

Rochelle laughed, accidentally spewing Twinkie everywhere, then covered her mouth and tried to hide her smile. "Nick, sweetie, that's how you know it's gonna be good."

The con man looked at her in irritated disbelief, but dismantled the package, letting the plastic to drift slowly to the floor. The rest of the survivors watched as he held the Twinkie up to his face, staring at the unnatural yellow color with the criticizing eye of a jeweler examining a pearl. Carefully, he took a tiny bit of the Twinkie, chewed, then swallowed dryly.

"Well?" Coach nearly shouted.

Nick averted his eyes, and gave a miniscule shrug. "Eh, it's okay," he mumbled.

Ellis guffawed. "You do like Twinkies, don't ya, Nick!" he yelled.

"I never fucking said that."


	11. Boxer's Fracture

The swamp was a symphony of insects and wildlife, chirping and squawking and deep-throated bellowing that reverberated in the chilled air, making it near impossible to discern the groan of a zombie from the groan of a bullfrog.

"What's that sound?" Nick muttered.

"Which one?"

The tone in Coach's reply kept the other survivors silent.

Along with the night's cacophony, there was a dull sort of suspense that was reminiscent of the thrumming of the deepest note on a bass instrument. No one dared speak; instead they tread quietly on the damp, mossy ground, pulses quickening and eyes scanning the fog. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, and a few rays of precious sunlight filtering through the thick canopy, but it did nothing to help the survivors see more than five feet in front of them.

"Sounded like someone was beating a horse," Nick murmured. His voice was held in the air, suspended there by the stifling mist. "Charger?"

"Could be," Coach replied. "Keep your eyes peeled, people."

Nick stepped forward and the mud grabbed his expensive leather shoes, soaking his socks with gunk. With a groan, the con man took another step into the swamp's sickeningly warm waters, trying to ignore the fact he knew there were innumerable amounts of parasites swarming in the depths. He bit his lip and pushed further into the swamp, peering down the barrel of his shotgun as he searched the featureless gray mist.

The sound came again, rippling through the cold air like raw thunder - closer now.

Nick stopped moving, shin-deep into the swamp. He whipped around, aiming the shotgun in all directions, and tried to locate the source of the sound. The Charger would beat him to a pulp if it caught him off-guard, and then it would be all over. It took just one punch to break his ribs - his spine - and to get hurt now wasn't something that he could afford.

The mist thinned as the sun rose over the distant mountains, shedding light upon the swamp, and shadows emerged gradually out of the milky fog. Coach, and perhaps Ellis, stood a couple feet in front of Nick, and great big trees rose out of the swamp all around him. But still, no zombies that he could see.

And suddenly, one final, inhuman cry ripped through the air, and the night's symphony fell dead silent.

"Charger!" Coach roared.

The bulky, lopsided zombie came splashing out of the fog in front of Nick, its massive, exaggerated arm held against its chest. Its other arm - a scrawny, bony, utterly useless appendage - flapped limply behind it as it ran. With a deep-throated howl, it picked up speed, and charged toward Nick.

Nick panicked and stumbled backwards, sidestepping the zombie as it plowed through the swamp. It breezed past the con man, missing him by mere inches.

He turned to watch the zombie's path. He glimpsed a flash of pink, and heard a gasp of pain and surprise, before the zombie was rushing back into the fog.

Nick cursed and raised his shotgun, taking a second to aim before he fired. Pulling the trigger, he unloaded a slug into the Charger's back as it disappeared. The zombie didn't even react to the blast, even as blood sprayed into the air. It simply continued on its rampage, with Rochelle in its scarred and mutilated fist, until Nick could no longer see its awkward figure.

"Shit," he mumbled. Fumbling for more ammo, he started back the way he'd come, walking until he was back on the moist, grass-covered embankment. "Shit."

Forgetting about the ammunition, he scanned the mist with his shotgun. The faded shapes of bushes were scattered about his path, and the bodies of dead zombies littered the ground, sprawled in various states of disarray. His heart pounding in his ears, Nick began a swift jog. He set off in the direction the Charger had gone. Cold air brushing at the sweat that coated his forehead, and his legs ached with each step. He could hear the pounding of feet of soft turf behind him, and didn't have to look to know that Ellis was two steps behind him, splintered and bloodied baseball bat poised and at the ready.

A distant thump echoed, followed by a strangled cry.

"Christ," Nick growled. He doubled his speed until he could see the strange shape of the Charger appear out of the mist. The zombie was lifting something into the air, then shoving it into the ground with the devastating strength of a sledgehammer, sending up a splash of algae-rich water.

Nick pulled the trigger. The shotgun's thunderous blast cracked through the air like lightning, kicking back against Nick's collarbone with a vicious force. The Charger stopped pounding Rochelle into the swamp, and turned to face Nick as he approached. Nick fired again, catching the zombie in the upper chest. Giving a surprised growl, the Charger stumbled back, dropping Rochelle.

The battered woman fell into the water.

Nick was less than a couple feet away from the Charger. Lifting the shotgun higher, he yanked the trigger angrily, and the slug ripped through the zombie's neck. He shot at it again, the second slug burying deep into its massive chest. Faltering, the zombie stepped into the swamp, waving its thick arm for balance.

Nick didn't think. He threw down his shotgun and stepped forward, closer to the zombie.

Curling his hand into a fist, he punched the Charger across the face.

His knuckles sunk into the spongy flesh.

The zombie crumpled to the ground, grunting softly. Nick flexed his hand and hissed, biting his lower lip to keep from cursing. His middle finger hurt like hell; judging by the swelling in his knuckle, it was probably broken.

Nick turned away from the zombie's body. Ellis was helping Rochelle out of the water, both of them up to their knees in the water. Rochelle was coughing up water, probably not hearing a word Ellis was saying.

"-It's alright, we all fall off our feet sometimes. It happens. There, you doin' alright, little sister?"

Rochelle bent over and gagged. She wheezed softly for a couple moments, arms hugging her stomach. Slowly, carefully, she stood back up, and wiped her forehead.

"Y-yeah," Rochelle mumbled. "Yeah, I think I'm good. Charger just... knocked the wind clean out of me."

Ellis laughed. "Aw, man, I just hate that feelin'! Ya see, there were times when Keith and I-"

"Ellis, hon, this can seriously wait," Rochelle interrupted, still breathing heavily. "Sorry, but I… I need some silence here."

The mechanic looked hurt for the briefest of moments. The he smiled softly and patted Rochelle's shoulder. "If you need some aspirin or somethin', I've got an extra bottle. Tell me if you need help, 'kay girl?"

"Definitely, Ellis. Thanks."

"I'll go get Coach. Maybe he's got a med kit…."

Nick watched as the youngest survivor went sprinting away, his figure traced by the dawn's soft golden light. When he disappeared over a ridge, Nick walked to Rochelle. He touched his injured finger gingerly and shrugged.

"I think I broke my finger," he said casually.

Rochelle sighed, and painfully drew herself up. She patted her hair and tugged at her shirt, then cocked an eyebrow at Nick, tilting her head and smiling slightly.

"Uh huh," she said slowly. "I nearly got my ass beat AND drowned, at the same time, and you're whining about a broken finger?"

"Hey, I just saved that ass, mind you. You owe me."

"Mmm."

Nick crossed his arms. "Besides. You didn't even break anything." Concern flitted across his face, though it could have been mistaken for surprise. "Did you?"

"Nope. Just a couple bruises. Gonna hurt in the morning, that's for sure." Rochelle touched her side gently, almost as an afterthought. "Tell you what. Soon as Coach gets over here, I'll fix a splint for your finger, you big baby."

"I'm sorry, who's the one with the bruises acting like she was going to die?"

"And who's the guy who just punched a zombie across the face? Dumbass."

Nick laughed, the first honest sign of amusement he'd shown in a long time. "Get over yourself."

"You first."

"Here, let me see." Rolling her eyes, Rochelle held her hand out. Nick placed his palm in hers, and watched as she delicately poked his swollen finger. She shook her head and let his hand drop.

Crossing her arms and pursing her lips, she said, "I'm pretty sure you broke it. We better get that treated soon."

"It's not that big of a deal," Nick replied. He walked over to where he had dropped his shotgun, and patted down his pockets in search of spare shells. As he reloaded the weapon, he shrugged off-handedly. "I just won't punch anymore zombies."

Rochelle frowned. "Nick, if we don't get that set, then it's going to heal that way."

"I'll be _fine_."

There came the pounding of feet on grass, and both Rochelle and Nick glanced up in time to see Ellis cresting the top of the distant ridge. The mechanic held a bright red package in his hands, and as he got closer, he started waving the thing.

"Coach said there's a safe house ahead!" Ellis called. In the early morning air, his voice rang out with the startling clarity of a bell. "Got plenty of medical shit, plus guns! I think we're gettin' closer to that village."

Rochelle intercepted Ellis as he went to give the medical kit to Nick. Giving the boy a smile, she took the kit from his hand.

"Great," she said cheerily. "How about you go back. We'll meet you there, alright?"

Ellis hesitated.

"Sure!" he finally said.

As turned and jogged swiftly away, Rochelle turned to Nick and unzipped the medical kit. Pulling out a metal splint and some gauze, she held out her hand, waiting for him.

"Come on," she said firmly. "This isn't the time to be Mister Tough Guy."

Nick smirked.


	12. Warzone

He knew it was morning when the sun glared through the slit between the drawn curtains, and the harsh light fell across his battered face.

Nick cursed as he rolled onto his side, burying his face deep into the clean, fresh sheets. Groaning, he clung to the final, precious moments of slumber. The con man was in no rush to rise and meet the day; not while the sun still hung in the sky.

When sleep did not return to him, Nick resolved to drag himself out of bed. Despite the fact even the soft glow of the morning's light was giving him a splitting headache, he managed to blindly make his way to the bathroom. Seconds before his fingers found the light switch, he realized the sterile, phosphorescent lights wouldn't help his hangover any. By the time he'd fully acknowledged this fact, he'd flipped the switch, and stabbing pain exploded behind his eyes.

Mumbling obscenities, he threw a dirty hand over his face and rubbed at his crusted eyes. Eventually the headache grew bearable, and Nick finally managed to peek from behind his fingers. Had he looked into the mirror - he made a point not to - he would have seen angry, raw eyeballs, a bloodied nose, and a darkening bruise along his right cheekbone.

Nick ripped away the shower curtains and peered into the porcelain tub. Staring at the grimy ring around the drain, he sighed and let the curtains fall stiffly into place. As he turned off the bathroom light, Nick decided he didn't need a shower that bad.

"Might as well get this over with," Nick grumbled.

Shuffling across the small hotel room, Nick stopped in front of the drawn curtains. Light bled through the thick fabric, bathing the room in a rich gold tone, making an otherwise pretentiously-designed, messy hotel room into something belonging in a contemporary painting. Standing still he could hear the bustle on the city streets beyond - the sound of cars speeding over the searing concrete, of rubber squealing as a panicked driver applied the brakes, of police sirens and unintelligible club music - all muted by the thick glass and smothering curtains. Below his floor, voices mumbled and a toilet flushed. Just outside his room, he could hear footsteps pounding down the hall, followed by breathless, feminine laughter, further away.

Nick sighed, and grabbed the curtains.

He threw them open and immediately recoiled, shielding his face from the afternoon sun as he bit back a growl. God, he'd forgotten how it felt to be this bad. He didn't even remember drinking that much. Had he even left the hotel bar?

Now that his room was properly lit, the con man set about cleaning it up. His spare clothes lay in disarray across the patterned carpet (most of them cluttered around the bed, the sheets of which were tangled and meshed with the thin, scratchy top blanket), varying from stained long-sleeved t-shirts and a single pair of jeans, to his brand new tailored white suit jacket and a blue button-up dress shirt. He gathered up the jacket and blue shirt and deposited them in a heap on the bed - maybe he'd wear that today.

Bending over, Nick scooped up the remainder of the clothes and stuffed them into the single duffel bag he had brought with him from Texas. He kicked the bag until it landed in the open closet opposite the darkened bathroom, then slammed the closet shut. He returned to his bed and picked up the jacket and shirt, then headed to the bathroom again.

He turned the water in the sink on, letting it run for a couple minutes before dunking his hands into the cool spray. Wiping his hands over his face, Nick allowed himself to relax and close his eyes as he washed his bruised skin, staring into the mirror as he did so. He had one hell of a shiner blooming under his right eye, which was only slightly swollen; there was a raw-looking cut across the bridge of his nose, and it appeared his lip was split. Nick frowned, and his face burned with pain.

Finally he ran his hand through his hair - he'd run out of hair gel, so water would have to do for now - and turned off the faucet. He stretched - rolling his shoulders in their sockets leisurely, emitting a comfortable sigh as he did so - and flexed his knuckles. His hands ached in protest, and upon examination, Nick realized that his knuckles were scabbed over with dried blood.

"Wonder who the lucky guy was," he mumbled to himself. He opened and closed his hand, growing used to the pain, before he leaned over and grabbed his shirt off the tile floor.

Apparently he was already wearing his white suit pants, the accompanying article to the jacket, though he didn't quite remember putting them on. As he buttoned up the shirt, Nick mentally backtracked. He remembered getting dressed up - ah, so he did put on the suit last night - and heading downstairs. No, he'd taken the elevator - he remembered the two girls, dressed for the night light, who giggled and laughed, and then the girl in the stiff pants suit, coughing into her fist and looking motion sick. Arms slung around the girls, he'd sauntered into the bar and - hadn't he played pool? He remembered the pool cue in his hands, but not much else -

Oh. Nick's hands froze on the third-to-top button, and he stared at his socks in thought.

Yes, there had been a pool cue in his hand - and then there'd been that big guy in the fancy clothes, standing there in the smoke-laden pool hall with the smile of a god plastered across his face. Oh, how he'd hated that cocksure, pretentious grin, and as the night wore on - and as Nick bought more drinks - his control over his fists had gradually fallen away, until his knuckles were cracking against fatso's jaw, and the pool cue in his hands was a splintered stick smeared with blood.

So there had been a fight, and he had started it.

Nick fumbled for his suit jacket and flipped it over, examining the expensive fabric for the stain of blood. The suit was grand freaking new, there was no way he could've ruined it already, especially when he was drunk off his ass-

There was nothing there. Nick breathed a sigh of relieve, then tugged the jacket on and looked himself over in the mirror. He adjusted the lapel, straightened the sleeves a little - careful not to wrinkle them - and smirked.

Suddenly, a woman screamed.

The smirk melted off Nick's face as he whipped about to stare outside the bathroom. Stumbling to the front door, he peered through the peep hole and twisted his head, trying to see down the hall way, to follow the scream. There was nothing, however - nothing but a sizzling trail through the carpet, from which smoke wafted gently. Nick frowned.

His fingers found the slide lock; he yanked the chain away and grabbed the door knob. Quietly, he opened the door, and slipped into the hall way.

"Hello?" he called. "Hey!"

Nobody answered. Nick became acutely aware of how the city's bustle had faded into nothingness, and the how the hotel echoed with a stifling silence.

The woman screamed again - down the hall to his right. Nick narrowed his eyes, then bolted down toward the woman.

Another scream.

Nick stopped.

The sound twisted - warped - into something bordering the line between a hawk's shriek and a human's shriek. Something began to thump on the nearest door, and chunks of it went flying across the hall, slapping against the wall opposite it. A slim arm was thrust through the gaps in the door, and as Nick stared, something disfigured and howling slipped through the hole. Glowing, nuclear-green acid dripped from its open maw, spilling over its raw, burned lips and onto its bare chest. The skin sizzled and popped as it burned away, but the creature - the woman? - didn't even acknowledge the obvious pain. Its eyes - straining in their sockets - alighted on Nick. Gurgling, it leaned away from him, and suddenly spit.

With a feminine yelp, Nick leaped away from the gobbet of acid. It splattered against the wall behind him, hissing upon contact, and burned through the cheap yellow wallpaper.

Gaping, Nick turned away from the creature and sprinted for his room, his jacket flying out behind him like a banner. He dove through the open doorway and slammed the door shut behind him.

He locked the door, more out of habit than anything, then threw his body against the door.

The creature's shrieking became louder as it approached his room, and then all he could hear was the sound of acid gurgling and sizzling on the carpet.

Thump.

A fist connected with the door, rattling under his back. Nick jumped away from it.

THUMP.

He abandoned the door effort and ran for the phone. Picking it up, he punched the dials frantically.

The line was dead silent. No static, no ringing - nothing.

Cursing, Nick dropped the phone and ran for his duffel bag in the closet. He shoved aside the doors and grabbed the bag, unzipping it and digging inside of it for - yes!

His hand wrapped around the cool metal of a gun.

The punching grew in frequency, until eventually the door began to crack from the blows. Nick retreated from the door, and flicked off the gun's safety.

Raising the Magnum, he stared at door as the cracks spread. Eventually, a piece of it split away and hit the ground. Bruised fingers grabbed at the splintered sides of the hole and ripped at it, leaving bloodied prints on the pastel-colored surface. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, but Nick maintained a steady aim, refusing to falter now, when it mattered.

On the other side of the door, there came a howl. Nick squeezed the trigger.

The bullet blasted through the solid door and hit the creature - she gave a howl of pain - but she didn't drop. Nick fired again, but now her howls were of anger - not pain. How had he missed that shot?

Suddenly, the creature ran away, her mutilated figure stumbled away from his room, running down the hall, screaming all the while. Nick dropped his gun and assumed a relaxed stance, listening carefully for the creature.

"The hell-"

A woman cursed down the hall. Nick recognized the creature's howl, quickly followed by a dull thunk. The howl died away.

Footsteps pounded down the hallway, past and away from his room. Pink flashed past the hole in the door.

A few seconds later, the footsteps came back, at a slower pace. They stopped, and a woman ducked down. A scowling face appeared through the hole in the door. Her dark skin was shining with sweat, and her black, braided hair was pulled away from her face into a tangled bun that spilled around her neck. Her lips - smeared with lipstick - spread and revealed perfect white teeth as she smiled. There was a cut above her eyebrow, and a small bruise on her cheek, and in her hands, there was a bloodied axe, of the sort that belonged in a fire truck.

"Oh, Jesus!" she cried. Her face disappeared from the door, and she tugged at the door handle. The locks rattled. Dumbfounded, Nick moved forward, and undid the two chain locks, and opened the door.

The woman was noticeably shorter than him, but she stood confidently. Blood splashed the side of her pink shirt - emblazoned with the logo of the band Depeche Mode - and she looked suitably tough with the weapon in her hands. She stepped inside the room, closer to Nick.

"What are you still doing here?" she demanded. "CEDA's been escorting survivors to the rooftop for the past couple hours!"

Nick blanched. "Survivors? Survivors of what? What the hell is going on here?"

The woman rolled her eyes. "You been under a rock, suit? It's a goddamn warzone out there."

"A warzone? A war with what?"

She smiled, bitterly. "With zombies, of course."

"Wait-"

"Look," she interrupted. "I work for the news. I'm a producer, okay? I came down here to see what all this Green Flu shit was about. My name's Rochelle, and we need to head for the roof, pronto. Now are you gettin' your shoes on or what, fancy man?"

Nick glanced down. He was still wearing his socks. Grumbling, he turned and dug around in the closet, pawing in the dark for a pair of his only shoes - leather dress shoes.

"Fuck," he mumbled, but put them on anyway.

A low roar echoed down the hallway. The Flu had finally come to Savannah.

_**A/N: Practice.**_


	13. Battery is Dead

Though he always took the last watch, Nick rarely slept. Something about the adrenaline kept him pumped for hour, on his toes for what felt like an endless ballet. If he managed to feel so exhausted that he could sleep he would only wake up from some nightmare; some foolish nightmare where logic and proper reaction time apparently didn't exist.

Or maybe it was the growls outsides that kept him up, not the adrenaline.

He could tell when he was about to crash from the apocalypse-induced rush. His limbs shook and his gut shuddered and he was aware of things in a detached way, he was so tired. He hated those moments. He felt weakest at those moments, and he hated it. Thankfully he didn't feel that way right now - the time for that had been hours ago, a couple miles away.

The helicopter had crashed around six in the morning, mere hours after the hell that had been the Midnight Riders concert. It was a funny story, really - Nick had just been dozing off when the pilot had tripped over his outstretched legs, colliding with Coach's considerable girth. He would have laughed under any other circumstance, but given that the pilot was spitting blood and clawing for Ellis' feet, Nick had a more appropriate reaction. Shooting the pilot was the easiest part of taking control of the helicopter.

Ellis had blamed him for crashing the damn thing. The kid had blamed him for shooting the pilot, too. Worse even, Nick couldn't even manage a proper snarky reply - his limbs were shaking and his gut shuddered and he was aware that they were in the middle of nowhere, and it was night. He remembered noting that those two scenarios were often working in perfect tandem for the four of them.

After that, Nick barely had the energy to get to the first safe house. His breathing was ragged, and his blood was pumping so hard he had difficulty putting one foot in front of the other. He was so bad off that Rochelle had to practically drag him to safety, a horde at their heels.

So much for adrenaline.

The second safe house - the one he currently sat in, fiddling with the stock of his rifle - was in a tiny town at the edge of a massive, smelly swamp, a mile or two from the first safe house in the drainage ditch. The walls were cracked and covered in notes from survivors. Some were memorials to fallen friends and family, others were condemnation of others' actions. There was even the occasional crude drawing. The house itself had two rooms. One was apparently the kitchen, dining room, living room, and bathroom area. The other room was even smaller and included a single queen-sized mattress. Coach's snores rose from the depths of the second room, and somewhere on the floor near the bookshelf in the first room came the sound of Ellis' muffled snores.

The whole place smelled like a horse's ass.

A small table held the group's supplies, from guns to spare ammo, even a couple medical kits left by other visitors. Next to the table was the only exit that wasn't closed off. It was made of metal, painted red, and held shut with a single thick metal pipe. The door had a small window cut into it, small enough for them to look through but not so big that something could claw its way in.

Leaning against the door was Rochelle.

She was holding a hunting rifle nonchalantly, hinting that there had been little to no trouble since they'd arrived at the house. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise over the thick foliage, and the little light that existed made her plain features nearly glow. She seemed distracted.

That's when Nick heard it.

Incredibly faint music played at the edge of his hearing, mingling with the swamp noise and the zombies outside. So faint he couldn't discern the tune, even - just the occasional loud note. But it was music, he knew that much.

He stared at Rochelle and realized she had earbuds on.

His first instinct was to get up and ask her about it. They'd been on the run for a couple days, running through rain, mud, fire, and blood, and here she was listening to music. Like this was normal, like this was her job, sniping zombies through the swamp fog.

The faint music continued.

Where did she find the earbuds and the music player? Why hadn't he noticed it before?

What did she listen to?

Temptation proved too much. Nick pushed himself off the ground, winced at the pain in his aching muscles, and approached Rochelle. She glanced at him - not surprised, just bored, it seemed - and offered a small smile. On reflex he returned it.

Leaning against the table, Nick watched as Rochelle glanced out the window again. He followed her gaze.

What remained of the town's population wandered around listlessly, bumping into garbage or trees. A pair of the Infected were fighting by the truck that had broken the town's defensive wall. Every once in a while, one of them would sit down on the ground, as if they were giving up.

A male wandered up to the door and proceeded to vomit blood on the porch.

Nick saw Rochelle stifle her laugh as he turned away to gag.

After a few minutes of people watching, Rochelle put her gun down and started to take out the earbuds. She tucked them away into her right pocket. Then she picked up her rifle again and continued to stare out the window.

She looked so tired.

Outside, a Hunter howled, its wretched sound echoing through the cypress.

"I could hear your music," Nick said quietly. He stuck his hands in his pants' pockets and looked to Rochelle. "By the way."

The corner of her lip quirked in a ghost smile. "Did it wake you up?" she asked.

"No. What was it?"

Grinning, Rochelle gestured at her shirt. "Want to guess?"

Nick rolled his eyes.

"I figured you were wearing that 'cause you liked the color," he said sarcastically. He was careful to make his tone joking enough that Rochelle wouldn't sock him in the shoulder.

She just pursed her lips and pretending to kick him.

"Uh huh, right."

"You never know!" Nick said, jokingly defensive. He twisted away to avoid the kick. It was an exaggerate gesture, and they both knew it.

"Well, it was Depeche Mode. I do like them, I'm not a poser."

"They any good?"

Rochelle scoffed. "Maybe it would be smarter to ask someone who doesn't like Depeche Mode. They're great. But maybe it's just for nostalgia's sake that I like them, I don't know. It doesn't matter anyway."

The way she capped off the sentence dimmed his smile. "Why?"

"Battery's dying. Got maybe an hour left in it." She sighed, shaking her head. She examined the gun's scope, rubbing her thumb over the glass. "Last music in the world. Isn't that weird to consider?"

Nick had never been a music person. He never really had the time to sit about and grow dedication toward a certain band. He was all about moving, walking, talking, winning.

As he stared at Rochelle, he grew more upset then he thought he could. There seemed to be two kinds of people in the world: the ones who listened and thought, or the ones who moved and talked. The world was different now. There was only time for a certain kind of person in this world, and Rochelle was not that kind.

He didn't like the apocalypse. No one did - except maybe Ellis, and in which case he could hardly count as a sane human being anyway. But he was smart. Shoot first, ask later, a concept that had saved their lives back at the helicopter.

Keep moving forward.

And don't make friends.

Maybe he'd fucked up on that last part.

When he broke it down to simple pieces, this was his world. This was a world that he could prosper in. This was not Rochelle's world.

Part of him hoped that it wouldn't always be Rochelle's world.

Nick bit his lip.

"Coach wants us moving out when the sun's above the trees. Give or take, that's about an hour from now. You should listen to your music."

Maybe it was people like Rochelle who would change the world again. Maybe people like Rochelle could bring music back.

She smiled warmly at him and Nick smiled back.

She put her gun down and grabbed the earbuds from her pocket. She put one into her ear, then offered the other one to him, and they sat down on the grimy tiled floor.

He learned he didn't really like Depeche Mode. It was pleasant enough to listen to, and it was an almost heavenly change from the screams and the shouts of the world beyond the door, but it wasn't in his tastes.

He watched the dust motes churn in the ray of sunlight that bled through the red door's window and felt a hand fall on his palm.

A few minutes later, Coach stopped snoring, and the music fell silent.


End file.
